


I'm Not His Date

by objetpetita



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU, Christmas, First Kiss, First Meetings, M/M, Romantic Comedy, Slash, Tropes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-23
Updated: 2014-12-26
Packaged: 2018-03-03 00:48:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 17,029
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2832104
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/objetpetita/pseuds/objetpetita
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU. John's finally got his career as a writer off the ground, Harry's having a giant Christmas Eve wedding in America, and some arsehole named Holmes won't leave John alone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 'Tis The Season To Be Jolly

**Author's Note:**

> This story was born out of three moments: in ASiP, when Sherlock exclaims "It's Christmas!", and in ASiB, when Mycroft says Sherlock has "the mind of a philosopher," and in real life, when I finished the semester and immediately downed more holiday-flavored coffee than was healthy or advisable. As such, it is unbeta'd. It's also dedicated to ser_pez and Iriya and all of the people who have so whole-heartedly supported No Stranger to the Cold even as I have had to put it on unintended hiatus. 
> 
> I have retained American spellings, as this AU and I both are located in the States (though John and Sherlock remain British), and I hope they do not burn your eyes out.

_December 20_

It was morning, it was zero bloody degrees, everything around him was unfamiliar and American and _cold,_ and John Watson was right on that inhuman precipice between still drunk and terribly hung over.

"Just coffee," he muttered to the barista. One hand rested over his eyes, but he lifted it enough to make some squinted eye contact. 

She chuckled. “You're sure you don't want the drink of the month? It’s a caramel gingerbread latte with fresh whipped cream.”

John growled. Or he thought he probably growled. He couldn’t think of the word for the sound he made because words were fucking fuckers, and so was thinking.

But at least the barista was grinning. In a city that seemed to have more bloody universities than toilets, John supposed she probably saw a hundred hung over customers a day. 

"Well, if you're sure," she relented. "Want to drink it here? You get a free refill if you have it in-house."

John nodded in mute gratitude and she slid a hot mug across the counter. 

"A lot of mothers and babies come in and sit in that area," she warned, cocking her head toward the plush couches and chairs at the back of the coffee shop. "But if you stay toward the front, near the windows, it's quieter."

"Ta," John rasped. The barista pressed his change into his hand, still smiling. 

“Happy holidays,” she said.

Blurrily, John looked from his hand to the plastic jar next to the till. “WE’RE SAVING UP FOR AN OFFICIAL RED RYDER CARBINE ACTION TWO HUNDRED SHOT RANGE MODEL AIR RIFLE,” announced a green square of paper taped across the front of the jar. He frowned at the money in his hand: a fold of notes—unfamiliar and American and all the same size—and a couple of smooth copper coins.

Oh, fuck it. Harry and Clara were paying for everything anyway, weren’t they? He dumped the lot of it into the jar and took up his mug. 

It was no easy feat, making it to a table without stopping to put his head between his knees. His cane clacked, unpleasantly metallic, against the legs of chairs as he passed. 

The coffee was a miracle. John drank it black and didn’t even bother to care when it burnt his tongue. Unwilling to release his hold on the hot mug, he fished one-handed in his coat pockets to be sure he hadn’t lost anything the night before. He deposited the lot in a little pile on the table. Wallet, hotel key, phone. Harry's keys. A tin of lip balm Harry had demanded he carry for her. A paper fare card for the subway. A crumpled-up napkin and the plastic wrapper of a mint from the hotel bar. John patted the little pile protectively.

A sudden wave of nausea gripped him, making him drop his mug and his forehead, simultaneously, to the table. 

And, of course, a child somewhere in the back of the room let out a hunger klaxon that felt like it physically sliced right through his brain. John rolled his head to the side to glare, but as suddenly as the sound had started, it was gone, pacified by a swiftly produced bottle of formula.

God, what a night. The important thing to remember was that even a hangover of this magnitude was worth it. Harry and Clara had spared no expense whatever on this whole ridiculous week – the result of which was rather a stupid amount of single barrel bourbon and a lot of guests. Some of whom were staggeringly intelligent, hot physics graduate students from Clara’s lab. 

Indeed, somewhere between the drinking and the hangover there had been a very witty exchange with one of the very intelligent, very hot graduate students, and then, to John's utter joy, she had asked if he was " _the_ John Watson" and it turned out she had actually read and liked his books. 

Shortly after that, there had been a kiss, an invitation, a cab ride. And then she'd thrown him backward into a bed and there was sex, lots of it.

John grinned into the table. 

As promised, the back of the coffee shop gradually filled with youngish couples, each laden with their own set of complicated straps and slings, blankets and garish quilted bags. Squawks issued periodically from the children they held clutched to their chests or balanced on their knees.

Thankfully, nearer to John, things remained quieter.The tables were small and round and the natural light from outside had drawn a few solitary patrons with books and e-readers.One, a grey-haired man in a fuzzy hat, was busily scribbling in the margins of a thick gold-edged volume of poetry. A smattering of others had installed themselves at the tables near wall outlets and were typing intently on laptops or tablets. John contemplated them idly, automatically conveying the mug to and from his lips, listening to the sluggish _plop_ of each moment that passed without his head exploding. Eventually, when he raised his mug and tipped it back, only a drop fell to his tongue.

"Refill?" 

A pale, slender hand extended into John's field of vision. Blinking, he followed it up, up, interminably up to an equally pale, slender face. 

The stranger raised an eyebrow when John didn't speak. 

"Yes, thanks," the stranger said for him, and swept the mug away. When he returned, one mug had become two. He clunked them down carelessly before dropping into the chair opposite John.

"Mind if I share the table?" 

John looked haplessly around, but didn't see any unoccupied tables. Ah, well. With any luck this chap would just sit quietly and –

"Liberty Hotel or Nine Zero?" The man crossed his legs and settled back in his seat. His posture matched his accent, posh in that nonchalant way that was designed to make class difference seem to be genetic. His eyes were trained on John's face for a brief, piercing moment and then they were on a phone the man had produced from the inside pocket of his jacket. 

"Sorry?" John tried to figure out if there was a joke in this somewhere. 

The man sighed and glanced towards the door.

"Never mind, our company's here." 

John sucked in a breath to protest – or, he would have, but for the mouth that was suddenly pressed to his. He had a momentary taste of sweetened coffee, a sensation of warmth where a hand landed on the back of his neck. 

" _Holmes_?" 

As quickly as it had begun, the kiss broke off. 

"Ah, Sally," said the unhinged person who appeared to have just exacted a kiss as compensation for bringing him a (free!) refill of coffee. The man – Holmes, apparently – leaned back in his chair, crossed his ankle over the opposite knee, and turned on an obviously false look of concern. “I see the tinsel your dog ingested last night did not agree with her."

John’s brow furrowed. He looked to Sally for help, but it seemed she was making some kind of point of ignoring his presence entirely. She was a pretty though frazzled-lookingwoman clad in taupe and black. A very full book bag hung precariously from her shoulder, and the purse she clutched under the other arm was filled with loose papers. She crossed her arms, looking combative.

"I could have happily gone my whole life without seeing your face fastened onto anybody else’s. Don't tell me you actually have a boyfriend," she spat. " _You_?" 

John straightened up in his chair.

"We're not–" 

"Anything official," Holmes finished smoothly. And then he winked in John's direction. _Winked._ "I've got a personal life, same as anybody," he said airily.

Sally was unmoved. 

"No, you don't. Where does a colossal dick like _you_ find a date?" she demanded, shifting the book bag to the other shoulder. "Or doesn't that matter on Grindr?" 

"Now hang on," John spoke up, not entirely sure what to be offended by first. 

"Thanks so much for stopping by to chat, Sally," Holmes cut him off again. "Your disdain is unbecoming as always." He flashed the most condescending grin John had ever seen, and made it all the more condescending by only offering it for a millisecond.

Huffily, Sally stormed off toward the farthest corner of the coffee shop. Holmes lit up visibly when she was forced to share a table with a blustering baby and an obviously overwhelmed mother. 

John remembered that he had vocal cords. “Just who the hell do you think you are?" he demanded. A dull headache corkscrewed into his left eye socket.

Holmes looked at John in surprise, as though he'd forgot John was there. 

"The name's Sherlock Holmes," he said. "Now shut up." 

"Right," John growled. He drove the heel of his hand into his eye, trying to tamp down the headache. "Listen, mate, I dunno who you think you are, but you cannot just _kiss_ other men in coffee shops."

Holmes gave no sign of hearing him. 

"Hello? You do know we're not on a date, right? If you are looking for somebody from Grindr, you've got the wrong person." 

Holmes remained focused, intently, over John's shoulder.

"What is _happening_?" John demanded. "Is this some kind of terrible kink between the two of you? Assault a stranger and then have a fight over it?"

"Nnnnnnno," Holmes responded at last. He sounded amused. "Absolutely n–" he cut himself off with a sharp grunt of disgust. His hands flattened on the table as he leaned forward. John turned, following his gaze, unsurprisingly, to Sally. She was pulling a book from her bag, talking into the phone she held cradled between shoulder and and her ear. 

"Ugh," Holmes announced. “She’s writing a book with _Anderson_?" His hands fluttered, dangerously close to John's face. "That's not even interesting." 

He fell back in in his chair. 

“It’ll be more utopian politics," he muttered darkly. "Not even worth nicking a manuscript when she goes to the loo in ten minutes." He flipped a memory stick John had not noticed before around in his hand, considering. "Then again, might still be worth it, for the look on her face."

John crossed his arms. "Stop spying on that woman," he commanded. "She clearly wouldn't want you to."

Holmes scoffed. "Of course she wouldn't want me to, John." He rolled his eyes. "Oh, don't gawp. Your name is on the card you failed to put back into your wallet when you bought your coffee."

John hastily shoved the traitorous card deep in his pocket. Pain spiked in his head and he pinched the bridge of his nose. "Damn it," he complained. "I hate you."

When he looked up, there were two mugs in front of him, where before there had only been his own. 

"Refill, please." Holmes was back to staring at Sally, scrutinizing the stack of folders she had drawn out of her bag.

“ _Why—”_ John stopped to focus on breathing, in and out and in again. “ _Why_ ,” he began again, at a more civilized volume, “would I do that?”

“Seems only fair,” Holmes said without missing a beat. “I got the last round.” His fingers drummed on the table. 

For a brief, heated moment, John seriously considered kicking something over. Preferably the chair Holmes was sitting in.

Instead, he bit out, "Sorry, perhaps I wasn't clear. When I said we are not on a date, what I meant was, we are _really_ not on a date. Not on any kind of date. Do you see?"

Holmes's gaze slid over until he was looking down his nose at John. 

"You're unpleasant," he observed. "And surprisingly homophobic for somebody who was at his gay sister's hen party," he checked his watch with a flourish, "somewhere between seven and nine hours ago."

John blinked. "Did we meet last night?" Surely he would have remembered someone like this.

Holmes tossed his head. 

"No, and so much the luckier for me," he retorted. His odd eyes roved up and down John’s body. "It's obvious you're uncomfortable in that suit, but a man of your stature – that is, short – will have had to have the trousers and sleeves tailored for it to fit as well as it does. Therefore, it's yours, and not uncomfortable because it's borrowed or rented, instead it's uncomfortable because you've been wearing it since last night. Wrinkled at the elbows – holding drinks, gesturing in conversation – but not in the knees – standing, mingling, not sitting. Not rumpled anywhere else, so you didn't sleep in it; you slept naked, with someone else, I imagine, but not the woman who left the pink feather stuck to the shoulder of your jacket and the silver threads on your lapel. Why? Because you haven't got an engagement band on – and you are the kind of man who would – and while the pink and silver _could_ be from encountering a child with some kind of princess costume on, it's more likely, given everything else, to be from one of those hideous bachelorette sashes people wear here. What is a straight, single man doing being hugged repeatedly by a woman in a bachelorette sash? Simple: he's her darling little brother, traveled all the way from London for her Big Day."

The last two words were obviously, scathingly capitalized. John came to the belated realization that his mouth was open.

"How did you know she was gay?" It came out sounding more awed than he wanted it to.

The corner of Holmes's mouth twitched. 

"Inviting a heterosexual brother to her hen night? No strict traditionalist would permit it. The brother would go instead to the stag night. Unless there was no stag night, because while she's still enough of a traditionalist to have a pink feathered bachelorette sash, she's broken with convention when it comes to gender. So. Gay marriage it is."

John's stomach flipped over, but it didn't quite feel like the hangover queasiness from before. It was strange.

"You're joking."

Holmes looked back in Sally's direction. 

"I'm not," he said. 

John took a long moment to study Holmes's face. The man himself seemed neither to notice nor to care. He was genuinely odd-looking: paper-thin skin stretched over sharp cheekbones, pale eyes with a startling glint of gold that kept reappearing and then disappearing before John could get a real look at it. His nose was prominent, angular. His lips matched his nose: a pair of sharp peaks marked out the middle of his upper lip, where he kept tapping one slim, thoughtful finger.

"Okay," said John. "How did you know about –"

"Napkin on the table," Holmes answered. "And 'red line,' words you scribbled onto your palm as a reminder to yourself about which train to take back to your hotel. Only two hotels on the red line use that particular shape and shade of cream for their paper napkins; therefore, Liberty Hotel or Nine Zero."

John was busy squinting at the faded lines of ink on his hand. It had been well into the evening when he decided to pen his little reminder, so the script was hardly legible.

"That barely says 'red line,'" he challenged. "Maybe it says 'deadline.' Maybe I'm a journalist with an article due today."

Holmes smirked. 

"Red line seems more likely, don't you think?"

John started to speak, but Holmes was already standing to leave. 

"Welcome to Boston, John," he said as he swept away toward poor Sally's unattended laptop.


	2. Over the Hills of Snow

_December 21_

 

The next day dawned much more promisingly – that is, without pounding headaches – but Harry and Clara were soon caroling loudly outside John’s door, urging him into the shower, and dragging him off to breakfast with Clara's parents. 

That went well enough, though Clara and her father spent nearly the entire time quarreling over a local election that John didn't have the energy to ask them to explain. After breakfast, Harry pulled him aside before they parted ways in the hotel lobby.

"You went home with Sika after the hen party," she accused, thumping him soundly in the shoulder.

John glanced ahead to where Clara and her parents were saying goodbye and making plans for the evening. 

"And?" he replied, keeping his voice low. 

"Nothing," said Harry innocently. "Though I think traditionally you bridesmaids are meant to wait until the actual _wedding_ before you get lonely and go home with the first person who says 'hello.'"

John bit down on a few choice words he thought Clara'd be especially put out to have her parents overhear.

"I wasn't _lonely_ ," he said instead, though he instantly regretted it. At the hen party, Sika had lit up like a Christmas tree when she recognized his name and he’d felt like a rock star. Now, of course, Harry made it all seem stupid. 

Harry grinned. John recognized the expression easily. "Oh, don't start," he tried to say, but she spoke over him. 

"How was it?" she demanded. 

"It was fine," he hissed. "Can we not talk about it now? Or ever?"  

"Prude," she complained. "All I've gotten to talk about for the last twenty-four hours is which chef was more recently featured in _Food and Wine._ "

John shook his head. 

"Can't help you there," he said. "It's your own fault, letting them plan this entire thing like it’s a destination wedding even though you live four minutes out of the city.”

Harry held up her hands, palms forward. 

“I concede the point," she said. “But. You know." She cleared her throat, looked at her shoes, and gestured vaguely toward Clara, who was practically glowing and still talking animatedly about baked Alaska. 

And that was, in all its splendor, perhaps the most detailed declaration of feeling John had ever heard his sister utter. 

“Oh, Harry.” John gave her a rare, one-armed hug. Harry allowed it for a moment, but she soon shot him a sidelong glance. Watsons approached emotional intimacy the same way Bostonians approached driving: abruptly, and with minimal enjoyment.

 “Yeah, all right," she said, pinching his side to get him off. "Don't pretend you’re not just here for all the sex with twenty-six-year-olds."

"One night with one twenty-six-year-old," John rejoined. "And I'm not telling you any more than that, so don't try asking."

"Harry?" Clara was heading back toward them. "Do you have your key to the room?" 

"I'll come up with you," Harry called, trotting backwards away from John. "Don't break too many hearts this week, little brother," she teased.

 

Some time later, after an unsatisfactory morning of writing prose he knew he was likely to just edit out again later, John was in his room toying with the idea of taking a bath. The in-room jacuzzi bathtub was a novelty John felt he could not very well turn down. 

A loud, persistent knocking interrupted his thoughts.

"Shouldn't you be off having loads of premarital sex while you still can?" he yelled, gathering up his cane to answer the door. 

When he swung it open, though, it wasn't Harry on the other side. 

"And here I'd been thinking I had plenty of time for that yet," said the dark-haired fellow from the coffeeshop. He wore the exact same solemn expression as he had the day before. Automatically, John moved out of the way to let him step over the threshold. 

"What the hell are you doing here?" 

Holmes flopped into an armchair, crossed his legs at the ankle, and proceeded to adopt a air of utter boredom. He picked up a novel John had been reading from the side table,thumbed through to where John had folded down a corner to mark his place, and then tossed the book aside. His gaze swung lazily back to John. 

"Do you have any tea in here or shall I call for room service?" he asked.

John, still working through whether he ought to be terrified, didn't quite muster anything beyond an indignant sort of sputtering. Holmes rolled his eyes. 

"Oh, please. I knew your name and I knew your hotel was one of two places. Hardly difficult to locate your room." 

While John struggled with that, Holmes took the liberty of picking up the receiver of the room phone.  

He got as far as, "Yes, I'd like to order –" before John snapped to attention and snatched the phone out of his hands.

"You can't order room service to _my_ hotel room!" John slammed the receiver down and retreated, clutching the entire phone to his chest. 

Holmes frowned. "Why should you care? You’re clearly not footing the bill." 

From the safety of the other side of the bed, John chucked the nearest thing to hand, which turned out to be a small, ruffled throw pillow. It bounced once before landing just short of Holmes's flawlessly polished left shoe. 

"Who the fuck are you?" John demanded, keeping his distance.

Holmes considered. Ten long fingers met and twined in front of his lips. 

“Order the tea first," he pronounced. "You'll be in a better mood after."

Then, unholy bastard that he was, Holmes picked up the book again and acknowledged neither verbal threats nor further airborne pillows until John accepted that, short of physically dragging the chair out into the hallway, he had no choice but to give in and order the damn tea. 

While they waited for room service to arrive, Holmes passed the time glancing about and emitting supremely annoying hums. John glowered in the opposite chair. It wasn't until he'd poured them each a cup that Holmes spoke.

"I require your assistance."

A spoon sang briefly against the inside rim of Holmes’s teacup. 

"I thought you said I was unpleasant."

"You are," Holmes returned coolly. "But I find myself in the unfortunate position of requiring you in particular. Against my preference." 

John frowned. 

"I respectfully decline whatever offer you're making," he said. He put the tea down with what he hoped was a visible air of finality and reached for his laptop. "Anyway, I've got a lot of writing to do now that I'm not hung over and being assaulted by strangers in coffee shops, so..."

He pushed the laptop open and proceeded to ignore Holmes, who was in turn pointedly ignoring the hint to let himself out. They lasted about thirty seconds in silence.

"You're a writer."

"Well spotted." John deleted a paragraph and a half from his draft. Too flowery.

"Hm." 

Out of the corner of his eye, John noticed the other man press his hands together in front of his mouth again. Weird habit. 

"I thought…”

John tried and failed just to keep writing. 

"What?" 

" _Ah,_ " Holmes said to John's suitcase, which lay open at the foot of the bed. "Yes, I see."

"See _what?_ " John barked. The tone of his voice would – _should –_ have made any civilian jump, but Holmes just smiled placidly. 

"You're a writer _and_ a soldier," he said, sounding pleased with himself. 

"Not a soldier," John corrected immediately. His fingers flexed on the keys of his laptop. "Not," he cleared his throat. "Not a soldier."

Holmes's eyebrow peaked. "Invalided home," he clarified. "So, I suppose you're right. Not an active soldier right at this very moment, no. "

John blinked at his computer screen, once, twice. He breathed in, out. Once. Twice. Silently, he opened his browser and pulled up his Wikipedia page. He didn't think it said anything about his time in Afghanistan, but perhaps some especially dedicated fan had done their research. 

When it loaded, it was just as he remembered it: three lines about his date and place of birth, his nationality, his book titles. Nothing more.

"I haven't looked you up on the internet, if that's what you're thinking." Holmes leaned  forward in his seat, planting his elbows on his knees. "Haircut, bearing, voice, the psychosomatic limp. You've only been a writer for a fraction of the time that you were a soldier. Obvious enough why you might not want to think about it – trauma does that – but –”

"Then why would you bring it up?" John shouted, the muscles of his jaw working madly. "And how –" he broke off suddenly, rubbing his eyes. "How," he repeated. 

Holmes pointed one authoritative finger at the suitcase in disarray on the floor. 

"Your luggage is expensive, leather, not anything like your style of choice, which appears to tend toward" – a hum of disdain – "the shapeless jumper and jeans look. Not new, either: a hand-me-down, likely from your sister, offering help in the form of visits to the States during your readjustment to civilian life. Then there's your watch, likewise nicer than your usual, but newer than the luggage and stylistically bland, in keeping with the jumper. Product of your newfound success, then. You wear it proudly even in the privacy of your own room, even when you're meant to be on holiday and have no schedule to keep – therefore, you like to wear it while you're writing. A watch would more likely get in the way than anything else, given your terrible hand position on the keys, but the novelty of being successful is fresh. Shot in the dark, but I'd guess the watch is a purchase you made to mark your latest book deal."

"Incredible."

John hid his face behind the cup of tea. _Incredible?_ Since when was he in the habit of complimenting people who brought his military service into conversation as easily as if they were talking about the weather? Meanwhile, Holmes was looking at him as if he had just reached over and poked him, hard, between the eyes. 

"And you're, what, a psychologist?" John said, to change the subject. "Is 'kissing straight men in cafés to see how they react' one of your research interests, or is that just something you do for fun?"

Quick as a whip crack, Holmes's expression shifted to one of affront.

" _Not_ my idea of fun," he muttered. 

He spent about half a second staring sullenly into his teacup, and then sprang to his feet to rush to the window. John was put very much in mind of a cat dashing about for no reason apparent to anyone else.

"Have a coffee with me." Holmes pushed the curtain aside to scrutinize the street below.

"I've still got tea," John said, tapping the side of his cup. “Unreasonably expensive room service tea, remember?"

"Then I'll pay for your coffee out." Holmes trod blithely over one of the throw pillows that were still on the floor, crossed the room in three long strides. "Come on," he urged, wrenching John up by the arm.

 

Five minutes later, when they made it out to the hallway, Holmes had managed to regain his grip on John’s tricep, but his other hand was rubbing gingerly over a blooming red spot on his cheek. 

"That was a warning," John said frankly. "I'll hit harder if you try any more sudden grabbing."

Holmes made a great show of rolling his eyes, but John didn't fail to notice the way his fingers stayed light on John's arm. 

 

Outside, holiday shoppers were propelling themselves at high speeds from shop to shop. A resilient layer of snow crunched underfoot and got kicked up in little puffs as people rushed through it. From atop every street lamp, wreaths and little lights stared down benevolently at the chaos. 

Half a block away, a trio of carol singers in full Victorian costume were launching into a rendition of "The First Noël." Holmes practically wedged himself right up behind John to steer him in their direction. 

"What are we doing?" John asked, more to himself than anything else. He held out little hope that Holmes would actually deign to answer. 

True to form, Holmes only nudged him through the doorway of a Starbucks, wriggling a hand into his pocket. 

"Take my card," he said, shoving a hard rectangle of plastic into John's palm. "I'll have a venti peppermint mocha. No whip."

John scrubbed a hand firmly over his face. What in God's name was he doing here? He trudged to the end of the queue, resigned. A glance back over his shoulder revealed Holmes lighting a cigarette and then shoving his hands into his pockets, watching the costumed carol singers all the while. 

A display case along the counter housed an uninspiring array of pastries, but there was a shiny American Express card in his hand and Holmes was an enormous git anyway, so he ordered the obscene monstrosity of a drink for Holmes, a filter coffee for himself, and three biscuits shaped like snowmen wearing long scarves and top hats. He carried the lot of it wedged into a brown cardboard cup holder, which was just flimsy enough that it was impossible to hold steady while he leant on the cane in his other hand. By the time he got back outside, coffee had splashed out onto the biscuits and dotted the sleeve of his coat. 

Holmes simply accepted his cup without a word and then reached unerringly into the paper bag to steal one of the biscuits. The carolers were just finishing a somber rendition of “O Little Town of Bethlehem.” John watched as Holmes managed to take the snowman's entire head and top hat off in one bite. 

"Who the fuck are you," John repeated, not even bothering to put it as a question.

"Shh," said Holmes.

And so they stood there, both sipping steadily and chewing, while the carolers rounded out the set with a surprisingly jazzy rendition of "Merry Christmas Darling" and then a more traditional "We Wish You A Merry Christmas." 

When Holmes's big stupid hand sneaked back toward the pastry bag, John pirouetted the remaining biscuit out of reach. 

"Two for me, one for you," he said. "You're a git," he added for good measure.

 

Then they walked. If anybody had asked, John couldn't have said quite why he was following an irritating and possibly mad stranger into an unfamiliar city, but it was, at least, a change from the numbingly dull prospect of being carted off to whatever meal Clara's family wanted to try next. Plus, being ordered around by Holmes was truly preferable to fending off Harry's insistent queries about his sex life. He loved his sister, of course he did, but there were more than a few reasons they only remained in touch over Facebook when he was home in London and she was in Boston.

Holmes, for his part, seemed primarily interested in examining, at length, the lights adorning all the trees and twinkling in storefronts. At one point, he paused to watch a bookstore window display, where a little toy train puttered around and around a bookshelf in the shape of a Christmas tree.

"I'm gathering that you like Christmas," John said eventually. They had wandered to the edge of the Boston Common, a large park in the centre of the city. It fairly glowed with lit up trees and lampposts.

Holmes pivoted into John's path, coat flaring around his legs. John came to a sudden stop,  his nose suddenly in danger of colliding with Holmes's sternum. 

"In fact I do," Holmes said, his warm, pepperminty breath tickling John's nose.

John frowned. 

"Holmes," he warned. 

"Sherlock, please." His expression broadened into what was clearly meant to be a winning smile. 

"Sherlock." The man was impossible. "You do know we are not currently – nor have we have ever been – on a date. Right?"

Sherlock patted John's arm like he was breaking some sad bit of news. 

"Of course I know that," he said seriously. "I'm a genius and you're an idiot; it would never work out."

John blinked. 

"Oh, fuck off," he grumbled, placing a hand flat on the narrow plane of Sherlock's chest. He pushed, and Sherlock retreated one reluctant step. John glared. "I should be in my hotel writing right now."

Another peppermint sigh wafted into John's face.

"How _is_ that third book coming?" Sherlock leaned hard against John's splayed hand.

Arrogant dick. Sherlock Holmes had no right to know that he hadn't got any decent writing done in months, that throwing himself into the first and the second novels had helped to stave off the looming sense of hopelessness that accompanied him back from Afghanistan but the third wasn’t quite working. That he barely had a first chapter so far, that today had already been well on its way being no good. But of course every single one of those things was written plainly up and down the cocky little arches of Sherlock's eyebrows. John was beginning to have the urge to throw something again.

And frankly, John reasoned, Sherlock bloody well deserved it, didn't he?

The handful of snow was on a trajectory for Sherlock's face before John really knew he had decided to throw it. Snow showered Sherlock's chest, stuck to his scarf and the lapels of his coat in clumps of white.

Shock froze Sherlock's expression, his mouth stretched into a perfect oval, for the space of a millisecond. Stricken with a sudden and urgent sense of impending doom, John turned to dart away, but he wasn't quick enough to escape a cascade of snow down the collar of his coat. 

"Gah!" Another, more solidly formed ball burst between his shoulder blades. John sprinted to take cover behind the trees up ahead, taking several more glancing blows on his backside. 

Weaving through trees and people laden with shopping bags, they raced up into a big white gazebo somewhere near the center of the park. John bought some time as Sherlock's terribly ill-suited shoes slipped on the smooth stone steps. It seemed only strategic to make full use of an adversary's distraction, really, so John squared his feet, took careful aim, and lobbed an especially large ball high in the air. He was already hopping over the balustrade and running when he heard Sherlock's (immensely satisfying) yelp, the unmistakeable sound of a man who'd just been thwacked squarely on the head.

The chase carried on with vigor, over a bridge on which several couples appeared to be having romantic interludes; past dozens of holiday shoppers, including some kids who watched the proceedings with open approval; across a street and into a section of the park dotted with rosebushes and smug-faced statues. One particularly tall bit of shrubbery provided John with enough cover to duck out of sight before Sherlock rounded the corner.

When that long, dark figure came into view, John launched himself into it. He took Sherlock sideways and they toppled into the snow. Instinct kicked in, and John subsided only when he'd got the other man immobile, flat on his back with both wrists held fast in one of John's hands. 

They lay there, half-buried in snow, breathless. John's free hand was hovering, oddly, over Sherlock's face, which John realized at the same time that he realized he hadn't the slightest idea what he had been planning to do with it. Sherlock's eyes were electric and bright, like all the little lightbulbs draped over the surrounding trees. Red spots bloomed on his cheeks. Hair clung to his head in big sopping whorls.

God, they probably looked like two of the biggest losers in the world, soaked through their coats, bedraggled and freezing.

"Juvenile," Sherlock accused. 

"Look who's talking.” Victory seemed more or less unequivocal, so John released his hold and clambered upright. His clothes were soaked all the way through.

"Which direction did we come from?" he asked, looking around for a recognizable landmark. "I should dry off. Harry'll murder me if I sniffle all through her wedding."

Sherlock was standing, contorting backwards to attempt to brush the snow from his back. He gestured at the street. "I'm just on the next block," he said. "You might as well come up."

John gave a nod of assent. No sense being cautious about going up to an unfamiliar flat at this point, as Sherlock was probably capable of breaking into his hotel room on a whim.

Sherlock's flat turned out to be every bit as insane as he was. Books littered every surface. There was clutter atop stacks of clutter that looked like they'd been there long enough that Sherlock had forgotten they weren't actually furniture. The chaos was incredible. Countless books, constellations of loose papers, mugs, paperclips, pencils, and all sorts of odds and ends filled the place. It was... nice, though. There was a weird artistry to it. Like Sherlock arranged everything that way on purpose.

John gave himself a thorough drying-off in the bathroom and hung his things to dry, then somewhat hesitantly donned the pyjamas Sherlock had offered. He came out into the living room to find Sherlock similarly clad but with a dressing gown over it all. His hair was tousled, all the product washed out of it in the snow. The ends were slowly frizzing as they dried, making it seem like his head was going fuzzy at the edges. 

"Incredible organ, the brain," Sherlock mused, meditatively turning a letter opener over in his hands. 

"Why's that?" John tugged the waistband of the pyjamas up on his hips. Damn Sherlock's long legs. 

Sherlock's eyes flicked up to him. The point of the letter opener pressed a sharp indent into the pad of his index finger.  

"You're thinking about your legs," he observed. "Right this second, you're thinking about your short legs, and yet you don't even _see_ them. "

John surveyed himself and elected to ignore the jibe about his size. "I can see them just fine."

A loud thunk made him jump. Sherlock's letter opener now protruded from the coffee table. 

"Your _leg,_ John."

“My…” John looked again. He twisted around to look at his backside. Feet, toes, calves, knees, thighs. Nothing out of order. 

Except. 

John's hands scrabbled in midair. "Oh my God. My cane. Where..."

“Out on the Common."

John patted his leg frantically. "Unbelievable. A sodding snow ball fight?" He gave his thigh a firm thump. Nothing happened. "Months and months of therapy," he groaned. "And it turns out I needed somebody to chase me holding a handful of _snow?_ That's all?"

"As I say. Brains are incredible organs." Sherlock shrugged. "Hot chocolate?" The sweep of a pale hand indicated a mug on the coffee table. Sherlock plucked his own mug up from the table, inhaling the steam. 

"Er." John stamped his foot experimentally. "Yeah," he decided. "Why the hell not?"

He picked the mug up on his way to the bookshelves that spanned the entirety of the far wall. Sitting down was the last thing he wanted to do just at the moment. 

The stuff on the shelves, like the stuff covering every other surface of the room, seemed to have been assembled with no thought to organization in the slightest. Esoteric philosophy texts jutted up against Andy Warhol biographies; a Joe Orton collection and _Middlemarch_ sandwiched three copies each of _Rope_ and _Vertigo._

One volume in particular caught his attention.

" _The Death Driving Miss Daisy: Lacan and Popular Culture_ ," John read off. Next to the title, an embossed _Sherlock Holmes_ crowned the book's spine. "You wrote this?"

"Mm," said Sherlock.

"This one too?" John pointed to another.

"I believe the author name might be your first clue there," Sherlock responded drily. 

John offered him two fingers, which earned a small chuckle. 

"So you're an academic," John said, pulling _The Death Driving Miss Daisy_ down to read the bio on the back. "Professor of American Literature, specializing in twentieth century novels and film studies."

"I can show you my driving license if you require further identification."

"That won't be necessary." John sipped from his mug and warm, rich chocolate swept over his tongue. It was sweeter than he normally liked his drinks, but after all the freezing snow, it was nice.

"American literature," he mused. "I would have pegged you for a Shakespeare man." 

Sherlock sighed as if John was being irresponsibly dull. He thrust both legs out over the arm of his chair, head falling back lazily. The line of his body was so fluid he might as well have been on a fainting couch, not turned sideways on an armchair. His eyes slid shut, like he hoped he could silently will John to silence. So, naturally, John went ahead and pulled the stopper out on his inner monologue.

“Then again, I suppose a contrary bastard like you _would_ choose the most incongruous thing to specialize in,” John mused. “Okay, not that strange after all. What probably _should_ seem strange is that I'm calmly standing in the home of a man who appears to be practicing some kind of holiday-themed BDSM with the contents of his library." He cocked an eyebrow pointedly at two especially tall stacks of books which appeared to be harnessed together in the middle of the floor with a length of glittery Christmas garland.

Sherlock was eyeing him again, assessing.

"It's good hot chocolate," said John, taking another warm sip.

Without batting an eye, Sherlock sucked in a sudden breath and said, "I need you to come as my date to a holiday party tomorrow night."

"Um," John replied, then shook his head. "No thank you."

Sherlock frowned. "It wouldn't be a real date," he clarified. "I only require that you _seem_ to be my date."

"...right." Watching Sherlock, who had given up the intense stare into John's skull via the eye sockets and was now studying his own carpet, John had two realizations which followed close on one another's heels. 

First, Sherlock Holmes might be many things, but he was not a stalker or a murderer. Second, Sherlock Holmes probably didn't have many friends, but he should have, so that somebody could tell him when he was being stupid.

"In other words, you're not even asking me on a proper date. You're asking me on a fake, pointless, pretend date."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and adopted a bored expression. "I'll bring you some roses; will that make you feel better?" 

John gave a small smile.

“Sherlock. You don't even like me."

"No," Sherlock confirmed, "I don't particularly." He brushed the fingers of one hand over his mouth, as though resigning himself to saying something distasteful. "I made a miscalculation," he admitted. "Yesterday."

John waited for more. It stretched for a rather long moment. If the awed reviews and accolades referenced on the back of the book were any indication, Sherlock was probably not accustomed to admitting he was wrong about something.

"I implied to a colleague that you and I were... enmeshed in a romantic encounter."

“I noticed," said John.

Sherlock cleared his throat. "Yes. Well. I needed to establish a reason for my being there."

"So that you could spy on her work," John added.

"Publishing is positively glacial," Sherlock complained unrepentantly. "Her work – such as it is – is relevant to my own."

"Some people might call that stealing ideas."

Sherlock shrugged. "It's going to be printed sooner or later," he argued. "And I'm going to write the same, smarter rebuttal whenever it does finally drool its way out of the blithering maw that is the academic press."

"Charming." John studied the dregs of his cocoa. “Well, I’m feeling thoroughly wooed."

Sherlock granted him a chilly glare, but only for a moment before his eyes shot to the window, distracted. John followed his gaze to find the world outside had disappeared behind a thick flurry of white. 

"Oh, Jesus," said John, at the same time that Sherlock crowed, "Oh, _brilliant_!"

The man was on his feet in a second and racing to the window. "You can't see a damn thing out there," he breathed, like it was the best thing he had ever heard.

With mounting apprehension, John joined him at the window. 

"There's no way I'm walking _or_ allowing a cab to take me back in all that," he said defeatedly. Snow was streaming to earth in such force that it didn't even look like individual flakes; it was as if a white curtain had been drawn across the window from the outside. He turned to look at Sherlock and found the man practically pressed up against the glass, oblivious to all else. 

"You can just barely make out the lights across the street," Sherlock murmured. 

John bit his lip. He didn't look for the lights. Instead, he watched the snowfall reflected in  Sherlock's eyes, watched Sherlock's dark curls bend against the barrier of the glass as he turned his head and pressed close, closing one eye to squint into the storm.

Oh, hell.

"I'll do it."

"Mm?" Sherlock didn't budge.

"I'll..." John rubbed a hand over his face. He knew he might well come to rue this decision. "I'll go to the damn party."

Sherlock swiveled. "You will?" His voice remained even, careful.

"Yep." John extended a single, awkward hand and touched Sherlock's arm. After two pats, he retracted it and returned it to safer territory, deep in his pocket.

Sherlock stared down at his arm, lips pursed.

"We'll have to work on your acting," he commented.

"Fuck off," said John.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For anybody in or near the academy, this really is just a holiday rom-com, and any resemblance to specific American academics is not intended. I’m also not necessarily endorsing any particular stance on utopian politics! More serious debates about queer theory are welcome elsewhere but not probably the most relevant to this particular story.


	3. Since We've No Place To Go

_December 21 & 22_

 

As it turned out, Sherlock was not joking about working on John's acting. 

He spent an hour – an _hour_ _–_ making John repeat things like "We met in a queue at Union Square Donuts, of all places" and “I particularly love his book on Kubrick” over and over until he could say them with a straight face. 

After that, John could tell Sherlock was lesson-planning for another hour on film studies terminology, so he put a stop to things by throwing his hands in the air and yelling, “Enough, Sherlock!”

Sherlock ground to a reluctant halt. He clasped his hands in front of his mouth and adopted a look John could only describe as pitying. 

“Well, there must be _some_ reason for our dalliance,” Sherlock insisted. “It’s hardly convincing if it seems we would have nothing to talk about.” 

"Sherlock," John snickered, “ _again_ , you don't even like me. Don't you think that's rather a larger nail in the coffin of this relationship than whether I know what a fucking jump cut is?"

To which Sherlock _actually stamped his foot,_ the weird bastard.

“Look, why can’t we just say we met at Union Square Donuts and haven’t stopped shagging since?" John spoke quickly, hoping to circumnavigate the incoming strop. “It’s meant to be a new relationship, yeah? So maybe you’re just infatuated with my very shapely arse, and there’s nothing more to it than that.”

Sherlock grimaced. It made his chin tuck in so far it very nearly disappeared into his neck.

“And that would be normal,” he said, sounding skeptical. 

John nodded emphatically. “People do it all the time.” 

Sherlock's face went blank while he processed this, like a screen going to sleep to conserve power during a software update. John could practically hear little gears whirring in his skull.

“I’m the dominant one in our sexual relationship,” Sherlock decided when he came back online. 

“We really don’t have to get into the details,” said John. 

Sherlock lapsed back into contemplative silence. 

“You said ‘normal,’” John ventured, after he thought Sherlock had probably spent quite enough time thinking about the power dynamics of this fictitious lust-addled fling. 

“Hm? Oh. Yes. My colleagues tend not to like me,” Sherlock said blandly. “Following my performance in the coffeeshop yesterday, Sally saw fit to spread word far and wide. The resulting prurient disbelief has been… noisy. And therefore distracting.” 

John studied his hands, curled in his lap. 

“My work is essential,” Sherlock said stiffly, turning to face the snowstorm with a swish of the dressing gown. His shoulder blades jutted out sharply. “I cannot abide distractions. And _don’t_ pity me, John – it’s dull.”

“I don’t,” John said a touch too quickly. “Happily married to your work, I get it. Nothing wrong with that.”

“I know there isn’t.”

“Okay. Good.” John considered. “So I’m supposed to, what? Prove you’re human?”

At the window, Sherlock shuddered. “Heavens, no. You’re supposed to prove _you’re_ human.” 

“Ah.” 

 

The snow storm went on long enough that John eventually insisted that they ought to eat dinner. Sherlock phoned the Japanese restaurant across the street and ordered tonkatsu and an assortment of nigiri without bothering to ask for John’s opinion. Unsurprisingly, given that Sherlock himself did not seem to know whether there was a table buried beneath all of the books and papers, they ate in the living room with their plates on their laps.

“What was today about, then?” John queried between bites. “Why the coffee and carolers and everything?”

Sherlock waved his chopsticks around carelessly. 

“We’ve a set of shared memories to draw on if anyone decides to do something twee like ask about our first date,” he said. “The most convincing lie is one that is contains as much of the truth as possible.”

John grinned, thinking of the look on his face when John had launched that first snowball on the Common.  

“I imagine you got a bit more than you bargained for, there.” 

Sherlock’s mouth twitched. “Yes,” he said.

 

When the snow finally stopped and John tumbled out of Sherlock's building and into the freezing night air, he caught himself grinning again for no particular reason. He slipped and slid and laughed at himself the entire way back to his hotel room, where he wrote until he fell asleep with his laptop on his belly and both hands on the keyboard.


	4. In The Air There's A Feeling (of Christmas)

_December 22_

 

Harry woke him at eleven by phoning to say the pocket squares would be burgundy, not wine. 

"I thought Clara decided on wine," John mumbled, blinking at his bedside clock.

"Her mother likes burgundy," Harry explained. "We pick our battles." 

John grunted. 

"Did I wake you?" 

John grunted again. "Up late writing," he explained, scrolling through the document still open on his computer. He'd actually written quite a bit after coming back from Sherlock's. At a glance, it looked pretty good, too. Not quite what he had been envisioning before, but... good. 

"With ear muffs on? I’ve called six times already."

"Sorry." John tried to actually sound a little apologetic. 

"Well, whatever. You might be the new J.K. Rowling but you're coming to the wine tasting this evening whether you like it or not."

John wet his lips and blew a raspberry into his palm. "Harry. You know I will be useless at a wine tasting. I will be less than useless. I think I might actually be a hindrance at a fucking wine tasting."

Harry tsked. "I'm not going alone," she told him. "I can't – Clara, cover your ears – I can't sit through another night without someone there who will also giggle when her dad says 'mouthfeel.'"

John heard an exasperated laugh from Clara in the background. 

"Sorry, you're on your own tonight," he chuckled. "I have a thing. A sort of... date thing."

There was a pause. 

"You're an unbelievable pain in the arse, you know that?" Harry got louder, obviously for Clara's benefit. "John's been in America half a week and he's already trying to shag anything and everything that moves."

Clara's voice was suddenly near the receiver. "That's great, John!" she cried. "Marry her and move to the States!"

"I'm hanging up now," John informed them. "And making it my New Years resolution to never tell you two anything, ever."

 

He spent the afternoon revising and writing, revising and writing. It was as if something had been jostled loose in his head. New plot lines were spilling into his manuscript, pulling him forward into a novel that was almost nothing like the coming-of-age story he had spent the last few months plotting out. He felt like he'd been caught in a strong, unexpected current. There was a murder where, previously, there had been a first date. The protagonist was sprinting through traffic where, previously, he had her en route to school. 

Instead of a dog, she got her hands on a full human skeleton and hung it up in her room. Jesus. He was writing a mystery novel. His publisher was definitely going to have a thing to say about that. 

Late afternoon rolled around and brought a few more inches of snow with it. The snowflakes were giant, fluffy things that meandered past his hotel window and, if he was honest, did sort of put him in a Christmassy state of mind. The thought of peppermint and chocolate was newly compelling, so he ordered mint hot chocolate from room service and resolutely did not wonder about how much it cost. 

It was only with some effort that he managed to peel himself off his laptop and take a shower in time to get dressed for Sherlock's party. He did think of cancelling, but the fact remained that a day in Sherlock's presence had almost immediately produced the best writing he had done in half a decade. Sheer curiosity propelled him out of his pyjamas and into his best date clothes.

 

At five past seven, John was humming carols and tightening his tie when a rapid, impatient knock sounded from the door. 

"You're ready," said Sherlock, upon the door being opened. He sounded surprised. 

"I am capable of following basic instructions," John said. "And of dressing myself," he added. "Come inside for a moment – I’ve got to find my coat."

Sherlock stepped in slowly. His eyes travelled up and down John from head to toe. And then they did it again. And then another time. 

"Hello?" John snapped his fingers. 

"Nothing." Sherlock coughed. "Never mind," he muttered, reaching fluidly into the space between the armchair and the radiator and coming up with John's coat. "Shall we go?"

The cab ride was quiet. John watched lit up department stores and hotels give way to the softer, yellower lights of residential streets.

"Here's a question," John said after a while. "You made me learn all about your work in case anybody asks; what happens if somebody asks _you_ about _my_ work?"

Sherlock had his chin tucked into the blue scarf round his neck. His response was muffled in the wool. "John Watson, young adult fiction writer, two successful books in as many years, the more recent one entitled _The Witches of Dauntless,_ which, despite its overwrought post-apocalyptic setting, has sparked negotiations for a sequel and possibly a series after that. You've a sizeable fan base in the UK, mostly comprised of adolescent women, and a growing number of fans in the States and Canada, but not enough that you run much risk of being recognized on the street. _Highly_ unlikely that anyone who studies actual literature will have read your stuff –"

"Oi," John felt he was justified in interjecting.

"– so I doubt I'll have to say much more than that."

"Right." John chucked Sherlock on the shoulder, half flattered that Sherlock had bothered to look him up at all. “Tosser.”

Sherlock didn’t respond beyond fidgeting tetchily for the remainder of the ride. 

The cab deposited them in front of a narrow brick townhouse with decorative blue shutters and a giant metal knocker on the front door. Trills of orchestral Christmas music drifted toward them from inside and a broad front window showed clusters of people smiling at each other while wielding wine glasses and little plates of food.

“Don't try to invent an elaborate story,” said Sherlock. He made no move to lead the way up the front steps. 

The cold bit at John's fingers; after the overzealous heating of the cab, it felt especially cruel. John shifted from foot to foot for warmth. 

"The most convincing lie is one that is contains as much of the truth as possible.” Sherlock spoke solemnly, like they were about to enter a courtroom. 

John hopped up and down. 

"So you've said," he reminded.

Sherlock hesitated, then nodded once, mouth set in a firm line. He made to step away. 

“Erm, Sherlock,” John said, and cursed himself. He had agreed to go along with this ridiculous thing, not to try winning a pretend-boyfriend BAFTA. Yet here he was, actually prolonging this conversation in the freezing cold. Perhaps he had left all of his self-preservation instincts back in London.  “Just relax a bit, could you?” John pushed on Sherlock’s elbow (pointy even through that damn coat) until Sherlock pivoted to face him. Snow squeaked beneath Sherlock’s smooth-soled shoes. 

“You’re visibly nervous," John informed him. 

Sherlock's brow furrowed.

“I know intensity is sort of your trademark thing, but I don’t think I've seen you blink once in the last several minutes.” John raised his eyebrows, hoping it made him look reassuring. “Seriously, relax. I won't fuck it up for you. I’ve agreed to help you and I keep my promises."  He nodded once, firmly, to underscore the point.

Sherlock was staring down at him like he had suddenly begun to suspect that John was made of jelly babies.

"Just say 'thanks'," John suggested. 

"...thanks," said Sherlock. He drew out the consonants, like he was trying them all out for the first time.

"You're welcome. So. Has anyone noticed us standing out here yet?" He tried to sound nonchalant. 

Keen blue eyes darted toward the house. Sherlock nodded.

"Right. Okay." John braced himself. 

Sherlock looked intrigued. "What are you –”

“Shut up.”

John rolled up on the balls of his feet. He paused, a centimetre away from Sherlock’s mouth, on the off chance that Sherlock would take the hint and close his eyes like a normal person. 

Sherlock, of course, did no such thing, so it was with half a laugh that John pressed forward and deliberately rested his lips against another man's for the first time in his life. 

Sherlock's lips were icy from the cold, but they were plush and soft and gave way easily beneath his. Not quite sure how long to let it last, John blinked a few times, counted to three, gave a final, definitive press, and pulled away.  When his heels were back on the ground, John gave Sherlock's arms a businesslike squeeze. "There," he said firmly. "Merry Christmas, _darling_."

Sherlock put his head back and laughed a big white puff of breath into the air.

"Loads better than our first kiss," he commented. 

"I think we have some real chemistry," John agreed. 

They were still giggling when the door opened to reveal a woman who looked to be somewhere in her mid-sixties. She was tastefully dressed in purple and green. "Sherlock!" she cried, warm and chastising at once. "Stop keeping your young man out in the cold.” She pulled them both inside the a high-ceilinged foyer, which was dominated by a cascade of white lights shaped like snowflakes. Dozens of strings of the little lights dangled all the way from the ceiling to just above their heads.

John grinned and accepted the kiss she laid on his cheek. 

"I'm Martha Hudson," she informed him.

"John Watson," he replied, watching with amusement as she wrapped Sherlock into a tight hug.

"We've all been waiting eagerly to meet Sherlock's boyfriend," Martha said brightly. "Let me take your coats."

"All" and "eagerly" might have been a generous assessment, John thought as Martha bustled off with their things. The people John could see through the doorway to the living room were glancing away from their conversations to eye the pair of them, but nobody had turned to greet them as Martha had. He recognised Sally across the room, staring more unabashedly than others.

Thoroughly self-conscious now, John put a hand out to touch Sherlock's shoulder. 

"Shall we get drinks?" he suggested. 

"That way, to the right," Sherlock directed with a flick of his wrist. "Laphroaig."

With that, he slipped off in the opposite direction, toward a grey-haired man who was conversing animatedly with a small cluster of people, gesticulating with a book in one hand and a glass of something pink in the other. John watched as Sherlock unceremoniously scattered the crowd with a wave and engaged the man by looming over him. 

"Berk," John murmured to no one, but he followed Sherlock's directions and found himself in the kitchen, where a long countertop was serving as the bar. An enormous punch bowl in the center explained the source of the pink stuff. Floating cranberries dotted its surface. Beside it, there was a round metal tub of beer bottles on ice and beside that, a veritable fleet of liquor bottles.

"And I thought literature professors were all dry, tweed-clad grandparentish types," John commented when he returned to his 'date' with two glasses of scotch in hand. Martha, back from depositing their coats somewhere, had attached herself to the pair as well. “It looks like my sister’s hen party in there."

"We contain multitudes," said the grey-haired chap with the cranberry drink.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. At John's blank look, he explained, "It's Whitman. And somebody makes that joke at every single faculty party."

The man scoffed. “Least I make an effort,” he said. “I dunno why you bother to come every year if you’re going to stand there glaring like Krampus all night, Sherlock.” 

Here was as good an opportunity as any to earn that BAFTA, thought John. 

“Yeah, come on, Sherl,” John piped up. He pretended not to notice the way the others looked at him in surprise. Slowly, like he was savoring the fabric of Sherlock’s suit jacket, he slid his palm round Sherlock’s narrow waist. Only the slightest flicker of Sherlock's expression betrayed any surprise at the contact.

“He goes to great pains to conceal it,” John said lightly, “but I’ve figured out the big secret is that he loves Christmas.” 

Sherlock’s ocean-tinted eyes turned sharply onto his. 

“ _Loves_ it,” John repeated.

Both Martha and the grey-haired man were grinning broadly when John looked back. 

“You boys,” Martha murmured, her voice warm with affection. 

“I’m John Watson, by the way,” said John. 

“Greg Lestrade,” the man volunteered. "I'm a Victorianist. Sherlock only puts up with me because I specialize in sensation fiction. Murders, corpses, a smear of paint on the doorframe, that sort of thing.”

“ _Sherl_ ,” muttered Sherlock, so low that only John heard it. 

 

An hour later, Martha and John had gone and refreshed their drinks, Greg’s cranberry punch had long run dry, and he hadn’t noticed because he was busy trying to break into Sherlock’s tirade on the subject of something called "surface reading" in relation to something else called "New Criticism.” Martha, shaking her head at them both, had let herself be drawn into conversation with a slim, timid-looking woman in a black dress. 

John nodded along, half-listening but not particularly caring to follow the debate that was quite literally passing over his head.  

Eventually, a light, hesitant touch and a cough to his right broke him out of his reverie. 

"Hello, sorry," said a small, high-pitched voice. John released Sherlock's waist and turned. It was the woman in the black dress who had been talking to Martha. Enormous silver earrings framed her face.

"Hi," said John. Her cheeks flushed almost immediately. It was rather fetching. John had to remind himself not to flirt.

"Hello," she repeated. "Sorry if I'm completely wrong here, but Martha said your name was John Watson?" She curled it up into a question. "And I wondered, I mean, you look just like... Well, anyway, I wondered, is there any chance you're John Watson, the author?"

John beamed. "I am," he confirmed, trying subtly to elbow Sherlock hard enough to get his attention. "And you are..."

"Molly Hooper," she answered, then thrust out a hand. "I read your books last summer and loved them. And I've seen the interview thing you did on YouTube, answering letters from your fans. Very sweet."

Gently, John disengaged the hand Molly was still vigorously shaking. 

"Thank you," he said, resorting now to kicking Sherlock with his heel.

"What in God's name are you – " Sherlock turned at last.

“Sorry, forgot you were standing there," John broke in. "But look, Sherlock, Molly was just saying she's read my books."

Anyone might have quailed beneath Sherlock's look of disdain, but Molly stood her ground, if gingerly.

"I love them," she said bravely. “They’re brilliant – don’t you think so, Sherlock?"

"...Yesss," Sherlock agreed through lips that barely moved. "They're, ah, very fine."

 "What's fine?" Greg popped around Sherlock's shoulder. 

Molly brightened. "This is John Watson," she said, pointing at John. "He's a YA writer."

"You're that John Watson?" Greg repeated. "Well, shit, Sherlock, why didn't you say so in the first place? My kids have been talking about _Witches of Dauntless_ for weeks!"

Beside him, Sherlock released a huff of displeasure. 

John cleared his throat and cocked one eyebrow pointedly at his pretend-boyfriend. "Thanks," he said, but Greg was already busily dragging more people over. 

"This is John Watson," he was saying. “Weren’t you saying your kids wanted to read _The Witches of Dauntless_?"

Thanks to Greg and Molly, word of John's profession spread through the party like wildfire. Contrary to Sherlock's assumption, several people had actually read _The Witches of Dauntless,_ and, John quickly discovered, the thing about being a novelist in a room full of literary scholars was that even the people who _hadn't_ read his book were armed with a thousand questions to ask about it. Sherlock, meanwhile, retreated to a corner and only did a half-decent job of not glowering.

"Would you consider yourself a feminist author?” asked a jowly woman with cropped black hair. 

"Is the political unrest in your work a commentary on the Occupy movement, or is that parallel unintentional?” a man wearing fabric antlers wanted to know. 

“Have you considered the racial representations in _Witches of Dauntless_ alongside those of _The Hunger Games_?” someone enquired. 

John barely had time to catch his breath as he was passed from person to person. He completely gave up trying to remember anyone's name. His head was spinning. It was fantastic. 

Going to the kitchen for another drink provided a welcome reprieve until he realized the only other person at the drinks table was Sally, who was assembling a complicated cocktail for herself out of gin and grapefruit juice and what looked like fresh sage.  She looked up and smiled when he approached.  "Sorry our first meeting was terrible," she said. "I'm Sally."

John nodded. "John."

"Yeah," she said, bringing the cocktail to her lips for an exploratory sip. She considered, then splashed some soda into it. "I've read your stuff," she went on. "It's really good."

"Thanks." John uncorked a bottle of Bulleit. Maybe she wasn't so bad after all.

"How long have you been..." Sally's eyes flicked toward the living room, where Sherlock was still presumably sulking.

"We've really only just started dating," John replied. He threw some ice into a cocktail shaker and looked around for bitters. 

"Ah." Sally seemed relieved by this. "Bit of advice, then. Break it off with Sherlock Holmes. Soon."

John paused, vermouth bottle half-tilted towards the lip of his shaker.

"Break it... Hang on. Did you just advise me, a complete stranger, to end my relationship?" he asked, incredulous. "A relationship that you, _as a complete stranger_ , know absolutely nothing about?"

Sally looked a little apologetic, but not nearly as much as John thought she probably should. She waited while John shook his Manhattan as loudly and rudely as he possibly could. 

"I know," she said when he was done. "And believe me, normally I would never. But this is a special case. That man is obsessive, intrusive, explosive, and I'm not convinced he isn't a full-blown psychopath. I say, get out while you can, even if he seems perfectly normal at first.”

“Of course he doesn’t seem _normal,_ ” John hissed. He poured his drink, possibly gripping the shaker harder than strictly necessary. “He’s the weirdest guy north of Antarctica; I’m not an idiot.”

Before they could say any more, the music from the other room switched off and the sound of Sherlock's voice rang into the ensuing quiet. Instinctively, John turned toward it. 

"No, absolutely not, you… you _harpy_ ," Sherlock was insisting loudly.

"But you do it every year," Martha's voice spoke over him. "It's tradition!"

 In the kitchen, Sally let out an unattractive snort. 

"This again," she complained. "Every fucking year. As if he doesn't adore the attention."

John sniffed. He didn’t bother to excuse himself as he walked away. 

Returning to the living room treated him to the sight of Martha trying to push a violin into Sherlock's hands while Sherlock did his level best to parry. Everyone else was looking on with interest. 

"Tell you what," Greg contributed from the crowd. "Play us a few carols and we won't bring up making you wear the antlers again."

Sherlock backed away, hands held up in front of him. He ended up wedged between the Christmas tree and an armchair, much to his visible chagrin. 

"Not this year," Sherlock averred. "Invent a new tradition. One that does not involve me."

John pushed his way through to Martha's elbow. 

"What's this about?" he asked. 

Martha pulled him forward by the arm. She was disconcertingly strong for a woman of her age.

"Oh, good,” she exclaimed, her eyes twinkling, color high on her cheeks. "John, help me to convince Sherlock to play a little. My son hasn’t touched this old violin in decades and Sherlock’s Christmas performance is the only time it ever gets played anymore.” 

John looked from Sherlock to Sally, who had stepped into the far corner of the room and was looking sour. Horrible woman. Small wonder Sherlock was willing to pretend an entire relationship just to prove her wrong.

"Play something," he encouraged. And, just because he knew it would work, he added, “You know I love how you play, darling.”

Sherlock raised a fantastically sardonic eyebrow and grabbed the violin out of Martha's hands. 

"Laphroaig," he said flatly.

"Yes, dear," said John.

John re-entered the room, fresh glass of Laphroaig in hand, just as Sherlock was launching into "Silent Night." 

John hung back in the doorway, observing from afar. The rich, ocean-y smell of Sherlock’s scotch drifted up to his nose and suffused the whole scene with a romantic, faraway air. 

Sexuality aside, it was impossible to miss the way playing the violin accentuated the litheness of Sherlock's figure, the effortlessness of his movements. Yellow light from the chandelier illuminated him from above, softening the sharp edges of his features, making him look younger than John would have previously estimated. Sherlock leaned into swipes of the bow, his fingers pressing and releasing as the notes crested and ebbed.

Whatever ill feeling certain of his colleagues harbored toward Sherlock himself, it seemed clear enough to John that Sherlock’s performance held the room in thrall. It was no great leap to imagine him commanding the same power at the front of a lecture hall. He was probably the kind of professor students speculated about in hushed, awed tones over meals in the dining hall.

By the end of Sherlock's concert, John was feeling both drunk and buoyant, and, it seemed, so was everyone else. Perhaps even Sherlock was, too, since he endured the effusive applause with far more grace than John had come to expect of him. He even returned the instrument to Martha with a flourish and a good-natured bow. 

"You could have warned me that you would be charming," Sherlock murmured when everyone had gone back to chatting and John finally handed over his scotch.

"You think I'm charming?" John murmured back.

"No," Sherlock said. "But Martha does. And Molly. And everyone."

"Don't sound so betrayed," John replied. "In fact, take notes. You could use a lesson in being nice."

"Ooh, keep going, John. I adore feeling as though I'm on a date with my mother."

"Fuck _off,_ " said John for what felt like the thousandth time this week. 

The rest of the party passed exactly how one might expect at a party with an even ratio of bottles to highly educated people. There were heated debates in every corner, and irrationally raucous laughter about puns, and a lot of quoting lines of poetry John couldn't hope to recognize.

At some point, Greg and a woman they all called Anthea, though John had the suspicion it was a nickname of some kind rather than her actual name, were pawing through Facebook on someone's phone. Their goal, apparently, was to find a certain photo of Molly wearing a chicken costume. Molly, face half hidden behind her hands, was leaning heavily on Martha's arm and giggling uncontrollably. 

It was a merry sort of chaos. John let himself be swept up in it, loose-limbed and, somewhat to his surprise, content.

Halfway through one of Greg’s stories about teaching a class on Victorian pornography, John realized how close he and Sherlock had been standing. He couldn't remember at what point Sherlock had reached out to rest a hand at his back, but when Sherlock’s palm slid to his waist, John's attention focused in acutely. The broad, firm pressure against the muscles of his back left a startled, tingling stripe across his skin. 

People didn’t tend to put their hands on him in quite this way; usually, he was the one reaching out to his girlfriends' waists, not the other way round. It was nice like this, though. John made a mental note. Something to keep in mind for the future. His head felt positively fizzy with the unfamiliar touch and the liquor and the heat of the room. 

The fingers at his waist flexed, rubbed upwards, came just short of venturing into his armpit. It very nearly tickled, but somehow didn’t make him squirm away. The hand retraced its path, settling again at his waist, and John had the sudden recollection of how those very fingers had looked gripping the violin's neck, easily dwarfing the delicate stretch of polished wood.

Christ, Martha's house was a sauna. John's cheeks felt hot, his knees a little watery. He leaned back without thinking, letting Sherlock's chest take some of his weight. He let his eyelids droop, just for a moment, his head tipping just slightly back onto Sherlock's shoulder. Conversation carried on, lapping gently at the edges of his attention. 

John didn’t realize he was drifting until Greg’s voice broke in, sounding amused.

"Looks like you should be taking this guy home.” 

John opened his eyes and Greg, wearing a wide, jolly grin, swam into focus. 

"You headed to Baker Street?" Greg directed the question to Sherlock.

“Mm." Standing together the way they were meant that Sherlock's answering hum vibrated up the length John's spine. 

"I'm awake," John assured them, knowing full well that he was blinking far too rapidly for that actually to be the whole truth. 

Greg chortled. "I'm taking Molly that way in a few. Want a ride?"

"Yes, thanks," Sherlock vibrated into John's back. It was warm. Everything was warm. "I've just got to find Martha and say goodnight."

A rush of cool air flooded across his back when Sherlock stepped away. John shivered.

Time moved in sleepy jumps after that and soon they were in Greg's car, where John slumped back against the headrest and let his eyes close.

"...absolute pleasure to meet you," he realized Molly was saying.

John forced his eyes back open. 

"Pleasure to meet you, too," he said, only rasping a little. "It was lovely to meet so many of Sherlock's friends."

Sherlock emitted a snort. 

"You did very well," Molly said, ignoring Sherlock entirely. “I've brought boyfriends to office parties before, and nearly all of them want to run screaming from the room by the end."

"To be fair, that is usually Sherlock's fault," Greg added. "So John had leapt the biggest hurdle before he even arrived."

John rolled his head to the side and found Sherlock was watching him, expression implacably neutral, eyes so sharp it almost hurt to look at him.

"Wasn't such a difficult hurdle," John said, not breaking eye contact. 

Sherlock blinked slowly. 

"John's being generous," he replied. "When we met, he thought I was an insufferable, pompous git."

John giggled. "You said it, mate, not me."

“Oh, you two are killing me." Molly had craned her neck around to look back at them, biting her lip.

Greg supplied a gagging sound. 

"Hands to yourselves," he commanded. "As the only fully sober person in this car, I guarantee we will all regret it in the morning if there are any shenanigans committed in the backseat of my car tonight."

Molly gave them one more look and then, reluctantly, turned to face forward. John followed her lead, but he was fairly certain Sherlock just kept on staring. 

Eventually, Greg and Molly dropped them both at Sherlock's front door. Molly's "Good night!" rang cheerily up the quiet street. 

"You might as well come up,” Sherlock’s deep voice said into his ear. "You were nearly asleep on my shoulder in the car."

John nodded blearily. Bourbon had dropped a warm, fuzzy blanket over his entire brain, and all he wanted to do was to follow its lead.

Inside, Sherlock didn't even bother to turn on a light. He dragged John's coat off and shoved at him until John stumbled along ahead of him down the short hallway. Sherlock herded him all the way until his knees knocked into what felt like a mattress, at which point Sherlock placed a hand on either shoulder and pushed him down onto it.  Still in total darkness, John's shoes were unlaced and dropped to the floor. 

Two thuds sounded like Sherlock dropping his own shoes, and then a brief scuffle sounded like Sherlock was fighting to get out of his own coat and jacket. 

"You're actually as drunk as I am, aren't you?" John accused, rolling a bit to get himself fully onto the bed. He made it far enough to smash his face sideways into the nearest pillow, but his hips were still twisted the wrong way. He decided it was good enough.

"For every drink you had, you brought me one as well," Sherlock muttered. "So of course I am."

A tall-sounding _flump_ on the other side of the bed jostled everything up and down. 

"Thought you'd put me in the guest bedroom," John mumbled. 

"I would have," Sherlock replied, "but I filled the mattress with shreds of Kerouac."


	5. The Very Next Day

_December 23_

 

John woke to a pulsing pain behind his eyes. 

"Ugh."

He fumbled for his phone, which was usually on the table next to his bed, but the table wasn't there. 

"Ngh?" John opened his eyes to an unfamiliar ceiling. It was low and flat and it was haphazardly papered with what appeared to be pages of text stuck up there with clear tape. 

Right. Sherlock's ceiling. 

John looked to the other side of the bed, but there was no trace of the other man. 

The night's events trickled back to him as he rose and wandered in search of paracetamol, which he found in the bathroom with a terse note wrapped around the bottle. 

_Went to office. SH_

John grinned at it. 

He helped himself to tea in Sherlock’s kitchen, not feeling particularly urgently about getting back to listen to Harry talk about mouthfeels. He sat on Sherlock’s couch and grinned at the garlanded stacks of books. 

For a fake date with a fake boyfriend, John reflected, the night before had been a lot of fun. He walked a now-familiar path through the Common and wondered whether he would get to see Sherlock again before he left for London. Seemed anticlimactic to just leave things like this.

Just a few blocks from the hotel, John came to a stop as an entrance to the subway loomed up in his path. He thought about his hotel room, and showering, and calling his sister like a normal person would.  

Then, instead, he darted down into the subway before he could rethink it, and he looked up a campus map on his mobile. 

 

Sherlock's office was on the third floor of an old brick building that looked like it hadn't been updated in at least the last half century. The hallways were mostly quiet; most people would be traveling for the holiday by now.

A placard on Sherlock's door announced his name in narrow black letters. John gave it a firm rap with his knuckles. 

"Go away," came the deep-voiced answer. 

"Says here you're meant to have office hours," John replied, reading the schedule posted beneath the name.

There was a pause.

"Not after the semester's finished," said the door. 

"Then what are you doing in your office during the holiday?" 

“I’m fellating Father Christmas,” the door stated flatly. "Now go away."

John licked his lips. There was an odd buoyant feeling rising in his chest; somehow, the wires between annoyance and amusement had got tangled together in the past twenty-four hours, and now he couldn't tell them apart. 

"Listen, Sherlock, I just wanted to ask you if you'd come to my sister's wedding with me tomorrow evening. I know it's Christmas Eve, but I remembered you saying you didn't have family in the States, so I figured you might not have other obligations."

A chair scraped on the other side of the door, followed by rapid footsteps. The door swung open.

"Why?" demanded Sherlock. He was in his shirtsleeves, hair standing out from his head like he had been running his fingers through it. He looked more in disarray than John had ever seen him, including in the aftermath of their snowball fight. Perhaps this was what Sherlock Holmes looked like with a hangover, John thought, not without some amusement. 

John shrugged. "Might as well bring a date, I'm allowed one." 

Sherlock's eyes narrowed. He enunciated each word in a crisp whisper. "We aren't dating, remember?"

"Yeah, I know, I know." John shuffled in place. "I just thought. Might be more bearable with you there."

Something blazed in Sherlock's eyes. He took John's forearm in a viselike grip and wrenched him inside, slamming the door behind him. John began to have the distinct sensation that he and Sherlock Holmes had been having two very different mornings. 

"What could you possibly gain by continuing this?" Sherlock hissed. He crowded John against the door and his breath smelled of peppermint and coffee again. Jesus, the man was a walking sugar high.

"Nothing," John said, blinking and, rather generously, _not_ hitting him in the face as he had the last time Sherlock had been unnecessarily grabby.

Sherlock harrumphed and physically knocked John against the door once more. 

"Ow," John complained. "I just like you, all right?" He rubbed the back of his head and grimaced. 

Sherlock was fairly seething. John got a hand up to reach out to Sherlock's arm, but it was a mistake. Sherlock reeled backward as if John had burned him. 

" _Don't_ be charming," Sherlock snarled. He strode to the chair behind his desk and dropped into it. "I've heard nothing all day but how _adorable_ my new boyfriend is. How _delightful_ , how _sweet_ he is to me, how _lovely_ and _cute_ and _good_ we are together." Sherlock's face twisted in disgust. "We might as well be a pair of toy poodles."

John hesitated. "But that means it worked, doesn't it?" he asked. "They thought you'd never manage a relationship, and now they're convinced you've got a perfect one. Isn't that exactly what you wanted?"

Sherlock snarled. "People are _texting me_ ,” he barked, “about you being a ‘ _keeper_.’ Whatever that means.” Both hands raked through his hair. "Nobody cares about the work when they've got a love story to distract them."

"In other words," John said slowly, "you're angry with me because I made you look _good_?"

" _I_ am not good," Sherlock spat. " _Good_ is a pointless thing to be."

"Fine," John retorted, "but you had fun last night – don't try to tell me you didn't. And I thought that somehow, in spite of you being a preternatural arsehole, we'd managed to become friends. So fuck what other people think and come make my sister's wedding less terrible.”

John had stepped right up to Sherlock's desk by the end. The edge of it pressed into his thighs. 

But Sherlock only looked back down at the stack of essays in front of him. "I don't have friends," he said, matter-of-factly. 

John frowned down at the top of Sherlock's head for a long moment, but Sherlock appeared to have finished with the conversation. His pen scratched lazily across the page. 

Anger – and something that was dangerously close to hurt – flared in John's chest, but burned away as quickly as it had come. He stepped back. Enough. He wouldn't stand and beg for friendship from a man he hadn't even known four days ago. 

“Fine. Never mind. I don't know why I came by."

He slammed the door on his way out.


	6. Just One Wish On This Christmas Eve

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is nearly the end, as the last chapter is very short. Thank you for reading, everybody! You've all been totally delightful, supportive, and generous readers. And, of course, happy holidays if you celebrate them!
> 
> A note on the reception venue: I have freely invented the hotel's architecture and played very fast and loose with its geographical location as well. Welcome to fictional Boston!

_December 24_

 

John woke on Christmas Eve with a bitter taste on his tongue. After leaving Sherlock’s office and stewing all day, he had snapped at Clara's mother during the rehearsal dinner and forgotten half the things he had meant to say in his toast, and to finish it off he was fairly certain all of the photos would show him looking like he was thinking about murdering the photographer with a coffee spoon. And he had responded with nothing but ill temper to everyone who commented on the unexpected absence of his cane. 

Overnight, the foul mood of the day before brewed into a sleepy sort of melancholy. John lay in bed until late morning, feeling very sorry for himself. Which was, he knew full well, not exactly a proportionate response. It had been clear from the start that Sherlock wanted him for one purpose and one purpose only. Friendship – or any kind of continued contact – had never been on the table.

The thought that he might never see Sherlock again was insistent, a constant itch. He wanted Sherlock to text him and ask what time to meet him at the hotel. He wanted to hear Sherlock's commentary on the ceremony, on the guests, on the bartenders. He wanted Sherlock to be here, in his room. He wanted Sherlock to flop down into the bed like he had after the party and then he wanted Sherlock to roll over and listen to John’s complaints about pocket squares and Clara’s mother. 

So it wasn't as if he was sitting here _lusting_ after Sherlock, not exactly.

Then again, the image of Sherlock's hands, broad and strong and pale on the neck of a violin, had still not left him. And, well, he had been sulking about _in bed_ all morning thinking of things he would say to Sherlock if he were there. 

Just as an experiment, he tried to imagine it: Sherlock next to him in bed. They might be… laughing, he decided. Sherlock would be draped carelessly over the bunched-up blankets. His head would be tilted back, his lips parted in a smile. His hands would be... 

John's imagination faltered. Where would Sherlock's hands be? Would they be touching him? Sherlock had touched him at the holiday party – a lot, in fact. Would he hold John's back against his chest like he had the other night? And, if he did, what would happen after? John honestly hadn't the foggiest. He didn't know a thing about what two men might do once they got onto a bed together, touching.

He was hard, though.

"I don't understand," he told his prick. It bobbed, as if in agreement.

He waited until the last possible moment to start getting ready for the wedding. He showered mechanically, tied the bow tie, tucked the new (burgundy) pocket square into place, laced the brand new shoes Harry had bought for him. His heels clicked on the tile floor of his bathroom as he checked himself over one last time in the mirror. 

The tux looked good, he had to admit. Now, if he could just make it through the ceremony without looking like a man who'd just had his heart stomped on.

 

The ceremony went smoothly. John even managed to stop thinking about Sherlock long enough to pay attention and tear up a bit during the vows. 

 

Afterward, Clara’s mother chivvied everyone in the wedding party into a pair of hired cars (enormous, shiny black Escalades John felt like a twat climbing into and out of) that took them back to the hotel for the reception. They pulled up under the porte-cochère just as big, fluffy snowflakes started to float down around them.

"Holy shit, that’s romantic,” breathed Harry. 

" _Harry,_ " Clara reprimanded, not quite convincingly, as she let herself be tugged out of the car and into the falling snow. 

Huddled under the porte-cochère with Clara’s parents and the other bridesmaids, John watched his sister and her wife stare up into the darkened sky. Both of them were rosy-cheeked from the cold. A snowflake landed on Clara's eyelashes and she poked gingerly to get it off without smudging her mascara. Harry caught her hand on its way down and brought it to her lips. 

“Ooh, their dresses,” tutted Clara’s mother. 

“A little snow won’t hurt,” murmured Clara’s father. 

Suddenly, John felt very alone. 

Well, perhaps the old stereotype about lonely bridesmaids was holding true after all. Only just a week before, John had been packing his suitcase and grumbling to anyone who would listen about his sister’s penchant for drama, about her big fat American wedding, about the ridiculous sentimentality of planning it for Christmas Eve of all nights. Now he was mooning like a desperate fool for a man he barely knew, and the sight of newlyweds in the snow made him want to pilfer an entire bottle of Laphroaig from the bar just so he could have it to himself.

He even thought, for a terribly, horrifically maudlin moment, that he caught a hint of peppermint and coffee on the chilly air. 

Next to him, Clara’s cousin, the only other male bridesmaid in the wedding party, turned and stared curiously over John’s shoulder. As John registered this, a familiar voice, deep and full, spoke into his ear. 

"I wondered if there might still be a seat available at your table."

John rotated on the spot, a disbelieving breath catching in his throat. 

Sherlock. John drank in every glowing inch of him. He stood with his hands clasped behind his back, impossibly elegant in a tuxedo complete with white scarf. His hair was so well-tamed it shone. Shards of gold sparkled in the shifting green and blue of his eyes.

"It's – er – it's a standing reception, actually," John stammered. "No, um. Tables."

One side of Sherlock's mouth curled upwards. 

"I mean, there are tables." The difficulty of breathing left him babbling at little more than a breathless whisper. "But they're for standing. There aren't any. Um."

"Chairs," completed Harry. She and Clara had made their way to the shelter of the porte-cochère at last.  "Who are you?"

"Sherlock Holmes," said Sherlock. He held out his hand to each of them in turn. "Congratulations to you both."

Harry shook the proffered hand with both eyebrows raised so high they disappeared under her fringe. 

"Sherlock's a friend," John blurted, regaining possession of a too-loud version of his voice. "I asked him to be my plus-one."

"Okay," said Harry, her hand falling from Sherlock’s grasp. She studied John's stricken expression for a moment. "Okay," she repeated, and without another word simply turned around to lead everyone inside. The rest of the wedding party followed, leaving John and Sherlock alone.

“We should, er,” John said and pointed stupidly at the hotel’s gigantic revolving door. 

“Of course,” said Sherlock. He unfurled one arm and bent ever so slightly at the waist, an invitation for John to go first. The formality of it made John want to laugh, which he would have done if it hadn’t also made Sherlock look so flawlessly debonair. 

In the heated (very heated, in John’s opinion. He could feel his cheeks flooding with color) air of the lobby, Sherlock fell into step easily beside and a little behind John, close but not touching. For a frantic moment, he thought Sherlock might take his arm as they passed through the foyer, but to his mingled relief and disappointment, Sherlock did no such thing.  Nerves jangling, John kept his eyes fixed forward all the way down the corridor to the ballroom where the reception was to be held.

Walking into the ballroom, John could have sworn he was dreaming. Everything was decorated like a winter wonderland, all silver and white with green accents. Broad, round chandeliers hovered overhead and a long balcony along one side looked out over the river, which was half-frozen and covered with snow. Trellises and tables on the balcony were wrapped with strings of fairy lights. An awning lined with outdoor heaters sheltered the balcony from the elements. The bartenders wore tuxes with shiny green bowties and the tables boasted towering curlicues of silver glitter.

And like a specter of an old movie, like some kind of knee-weakening short circuit of Cary Grant and Audrey Hepburn, Sherlock glided into the room beside him.

John thought he should probably say something.

“You came.” It was literally the only thing he could think of. 

“Yes.” 

But then a photographer was jumping in front of them to snap what felt like a thousand photographs and John’s heart was left helplessly thumping along at twice its usual speed. 

A whirl of handshakes and greetings and posed photos kept John moving from person to person for a full hour and a half. When he next caught sight of him, Sherlock was alone at a table in a far corner of the ballroom, his hand wrapped loosely around a squat round glass of amber liquid. His arm rested on the table and pulled his jacket open just enough to display his narrow waist, snugly buttoned into a white waistcoat. 

John felt like someone had glued his tongue to the roof of his mouth. Oh, God. His clothes felt too tight all over.

Things did not improve with his toast, during which John read off of a set of notecards that grew increasingly sweaty in his hands. He barely knew what he was saying, he was so aware of Sherlock’s dark head hovering at the edge of his peripheral vision. The moment the audience broke into applause, he was retreating, eyes trained resolutely on the carpet, to the toilets to collect himself. 

Which was how John ended up with his hands braced on the sinks, breathing very fast indeed over a bowl of decorative potpourri. 

What the hell was happening to him? He needed to find Sherlock and demand to know what was going on. If this was just about Sherlock deciding to be a friend after all, and nothing more, then John needed to find out as soon as possible. Before the chaos of feelings clattering about in his chest got too difficult to contain.

 

He had just managed to gather his wits about him enough to step out again when one of Clara’s aunts was at his elbow. 

“Is your friend okay?" she enquired. 

John followed her gaze to the balcony. Sherlock was leaning on the railing, silhouetted by the glow of the buildings on the other side of the river. His arms were spread wide, hands gripping the railing; his head dropped to his chest, disappearing beneath the uneven line of his shoulders. The red tip of a cigarette burned between two of his fingers. 

"I'll check on him," John said.

"Hope he's all right," she offered. 

 

John made his way outside, politely excusing himself from relatives who tried to ensnare him into conversation along the way. He stopped and forced a deep breath into his lungs before pushing open the balcony door. 

"Sherlock?" he ventured. He stepped up to the railing. 

At the sound of his voice, Sherlock straightened but did not turn.

“All right?” 

Sherlock took a long, wordless drag from the cigarette. 

"Oookay." John turned to face forward as well and leaned on the railing. They stood that way for a while.

“In my childhood, there were murmurs of sociopathy,” Sherlock eventually said, smoky and deep.

John pursed his lips, feeling a bit unmoored. “With regard to…”

Sherlock shrugged. “Me.” 

The cigarette traveled upward again. John’s eyes followed it, watched pink lips tense and release around the filter. 

“I have never been certain of whether I truly care about anything at all, really.” The snow muted the sound of a nearby train rushing past. Sherlock tilted his head, squinted at the Boston skyline. 

“Well, there’s Christmas,” John said, feeling unbearably twee. “You do love Christmas.” 

“Yes.” Sherlock nodded, seeming to take the point seriously. “I also love my work.” 

“And… those are real feelings.”

Sherlock’s head tilted the other way, back and forth, a slow-motion expression of ‘maybe, maybe not.’

“They are attachments,” he said, “to sources of stimuli. A mind like mine requires such things. Without them, I tend to overdose on cocaine.”

John looked up sharply. 

Sherlock remained focused on the horizon. 

“Well, just the one time,” he elaborated. “But I prefer not to revisit it.”

Behind them, the first chime-like notes of “All I Want for Christmas is You” set off a wave of merry cheering on the dance floor. Sherlock ground out the last of his cigarette and flicked it away.

“Do you understand what I’m saying, John?”

John allowed himself a moment to think.

“You love things,” he affirmed. “And the things you love help you not to overdose on cocaine.”

The corner of Sherlock’s mouth turned upward in a small, sad smile. 

“Or the things I _think_ I love are simply objects that momentarily distract me from self-destructing.” 

John breathed in and out. He savored the pull of cold air into his nose.

“If you think you love something, then you love it. That’s what love is: thoughts.” He turned to face Sherlock. “An idiot can see you aren’t a sociopath.”

And Sherlock moved like lightning. His palm cupped John’s jaw. He drew John’s face in close, studying him intently. 

“I hardly know anything about you,” he breathed. 

John could feel his ears flaming. How as it possible to feel this _warm_ while standing outside in a New England winter? He said a silent, fervent prayer of thanks for the breath mint he had unthinkingly eaten right before delivering his toast.

“You know enough to be getting on with,” he whispered. 

Sherlock’s lips were soft and dry when they slid into place against John’s. For a fantastic, enormous moment, there was the sound of fat snowflakes dropping onto the awning above them, the bass thumping from the ballroom, the beeping of traffic below, and apart from it all there was John’s bottom lip clasped between Sherlock’s. 

Breath huffed across John’s cheek, a hand came up to settle against the other side of his face, and Sherlock’s mouth was opening on his. He drew John’s bottom lip in a little deeper. The gentle tug of it sent shivers up John’s spine. 

Using his height to his advantage, Sherlock pivoted John back against the railing. Snowflakes began to fall inside the back of his collar, but he couldn’t have cared less. The railing was a firm, stabilizing pressure at his back while Sherlock’s tongue traced gentle, curling patterns onto John’s. John’s heart snapped and juddered in his chest like a mainsail luffing in a strong wind.

Sherlock’s right hand left his jaw, slid back round his head. Blunt fingernails drew down the nape of his neck. 

“You’re incredible,” John gasped. 

Sherlock stepped in closer. “Thank you,” he murmured against John’s mouth. He sucked at John’s bottom lip, harder than before. “You’re an idiot.”

“Thank you,” said John.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One of John's lines is respectfully borrowed from Commander Adama of BSG. Kudos to you if you spotted it!


	7. Later On, We'll Conspire

_December 25, 2:00 A.M._

 

At the end of the night, John had to help a couple of especially celebratory (and therefore difficult to herd) guests to the taxi stand, but he made his way quickly back to the ballroom, where the staff were collecting the last of the plates, the bartenders were wiping down their bars, and Sherlock was waiting half hidden behind a potted plant. 

John couldn’t stop a giggle. 

“What are you doing?” he enquired. 

Sherlock looked distinctly put out about being laughed at. 

“The crowd dispersed while you were outside,” he said solemnly. “You said to stay here and I wasn’t certain – that is – I could have gone up, as I know which is your room, but I didn’t want to… presume.”

John licked his lips.  

“No, I, er.” He giggled again, though this time it came out a bit higher in pitch. “I could invite you up.” His hand waved illustratively at the ceiling. 

Sherlock’s dark eyebrows crinkled as he worked to settle his face into an expression of mild interest.

“If you like,” he said at last. 

John nodded. 

“Yes,” he said. “I’m afraid I can’t offer you tea, but I suspect that for a maid of honor such as myself, that bartender could part with a glass of whiskey or two.”

 

No one but the desk attendant was in the lobby to see them retreating, each holding a triumphant glass of Woodford Reserve. John, feeling bold, slipped his free hand into a tempting spot in the small of Sherlock’s back while they waited for the lift. 

Which was, naturally, just when a cheerful beep sounded and the lift doors slid open to reveal none other than Harriet Watson, one strap of her dress hanging loosely off her shoulder. 

“John?”

John winced. “Harry,” he said warningly, drawing out the second syllable just like when they were kids. 

Harry bit her lip and, to her credit, did not grin. She put both hands up in a gesture of surrender and sidled out of the lift while John and Sherlock stepped inside. 

“Clara forgot toothpaste, so I’m off to the front desk,” she said lightly as the doors (slowly, oh god, far too slowly) began to close. “You gents have a _lovely_ night.” 

She waited until the last possible moment to lean in and stage-whisper, “I _knew_ it, John, you jammy bisexual _sod!_ ”

Sherlock laughed all the way up to John’s floor. 


End file.
